A house with a carpet of leaves,
and a roof of stars,
with tree trunks as pillars,
and creepers as curtains,
with birds providing the music,
and streams as bath tubs,
with rainfall as my shower,
and moonlight as night light,
with flowers as "room" fresheners,
and a garden in place of a grocery store,
with the breeze as my balm,
and deadwood as fuel,
with daily celestial shows as my primetime television,
and my circadian clock the only one,
with a calendar on a log,
and my commute ending as it begins,
but continuing still,
with wild grass like wilder brush-strokes,
and the rising red moon defying words,
with me leaving it to your imagination,
underneath clouds as my umbrella,
and my feet as my vehicle,
all, with my mind as my canvas.
